Harry Potter and the ice princess
by FPB
Summary: Hey, you! Yes, I mean you! Wanna see the absolute, not-a-doubt-in-the-world, unbeatable CRAZIEST ship of all time? Well, come in, then!


Harry Potter and the ice princess  
  
Narcissa Malfoy had never had the opportunity to look at Harry Potter close up. Not that it mattered much, since she conceived that she had plenty of reasons to hate him. Apart from the politics of being for or against the Dark Lord – and the Dark Lord had no worse enemy, save perhaps for Dumbledore, than the young man – there was the fact that nearly every summer since he had gone to Hogwarts, her precious son Draco – her only son, thought Narcissa bitterly – came home the victim of some jinx or hex by Potter and his friends. Most recently, apart from a simply dreadful hex- combination against Draco on the way home, Potter had been the direct cause of her husband winding up in jail. Not that Narcissa minded that so much: it was the fortunes of war, and Lucius would no doubt be out of it soon – legally or illegally... At any rate, theirs had long been a rather elastic and business-like marriage, and she felt no need for him at night. It was what Draco had had to suffer at the hands of that thug Potter and his miserable half-breed friends, that she minded. Narcissa would not, on principle, believe that her son was ever guilty of anything; but even a less one-sided mother might be forgiven for detesting the lad through whose agency her son had come home, last time, in the shape of a gigantic slug.  
  
The fact remained, however, that Narcissa Malfoy had never seen Harry Potter close up, let alone spoken to him. She had a good idea what he looked like, but she had only ever seen him from a distance, in King's Cross Station or at the Quidditch World Cup. She was not, therefore, prepared to be bowled over the day she quite casually ran across him in Hogwarts. She had come to see her son, but he had a Muggle Studies class; so she had wandered off into the gardens and sat down on a circular bench. A few minutes later, a knot of Quidditch players in Gryffindor colours had come in and sat on the opposite side, paying her no attention. They carried on with a technical discussion in which she had no interest; but when she heard her son's name mentioned, she turned to listen, and saw him.  
  
Oh my Dark Lord, she thought. He was dishevelled, muddied and soaked with sweat; his hair, famously messy at any time, now resembled nothing so much as a tract of shrub after an earthquake; he wore silly glasses; his robes were common, badly worn, and rather rumpled; and he was simply the most gorgeous male creature she had seen since Lucius was young. The strong, muscular, but not overgrown body, hardened by years of Quidditch; the lovely hands with the long sensitive fingers; the Greek-god features, flawless complexion (wonder if he shaved yet? If so, it didn't show); and the astonishing contrast of black hair and green eyes! Lily's eyes, she remembered – just as everyone said. When Lily had been murdered long ago, Narcissa had only regretted the loss of her beauty; and now here were her eyes in her son.  
  
Narcissa was a lady used to having her way, especially in sex. Then and there, she decided that she wanted him in bed; although she was quite clear, depressingly clear, about the immense difficulties involved. And just to reinforce that, she heard their conversation as she kept unobtrusively looking at him in her mirror, under the guise of checking her make-up. It was clear that nothing would please them all more than to give Slytherin – and her own son – the drubbing of the century. Normal inter- house rivalry this was not; there was a peculiar hostility towards Draco in particular that angered and depressed her. Suddenly one player, then another, then another, fell silent. She had no doubt that they had realized who she was; and they quietly drifted away, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Even Narcissa Malfoy did not like being hated; and she realized that what Harry Potter and his friends felt for her and her family was nothing short of hatred. But his image was burned in her mind and in her loins, and she wanted him.  
  
In the next few weeks, she dedicated some action, and more thought, to this purpose. She was remarkably assiduous at Hogwarts functions, Ministry dances, and Quidditch matches; anywhere where she thought Potter might turn up – even at the price of hearing sanctimonious mutters of "ain't she got the cheek!" from wizened, respectable witches who would once have smarmed up to her and now couldn't get over how she, the jailbird's wife, dared show her face around so freely. However, the only thing this achieved was to strengthen her reputation for coldness and add a new one for lack of shame. Not that she minded much. Potter, she came to conclude, suffered from no temptations to social success; she felt a sneaking admiration for this – he could have been an absolute social lion, had he wanted to – but also, on the practical side, a certain irritation at his lack of smarts. How are you going to make a decent enemy for us, boy, if you don't even try to win friends and influence people?  
  
In all of this, Narcissa's lusts were very much in charge. She was not, as a rule, a sporting or fair-minded person, and certainly suffered from no temptations to fair play towards enemies. The reason why she treated Potter's failures and deficiencies of strategy as anything except an advantage to be ruthlessly exploited was simply that her desire for him had served as an ersatz for a sympathetic understanding she did not otherwise have. She was only concerned about his shortcomings or his smarts so long as she saw him as prospective bed material; she would otherwise have calmly tortured him to death, not for fun like her sister Bella, but for business.  
  
Finally Narcissa came to the conclusion that this was a simple waste of time. On the few occasions she had managed to be in the same room with Potter, her attempts at an approach had been not even so much ignored as simply not noticed; it did not cross his mind that she might even want to speak with him. And time was clicking by; every day brought closer the moment when Lucius would break out of jail and come back, with even less scruples and less to lose. This would not necessarily change anything, but would indubitably make the Potter boy even cagier. She came to the conclusion that if she was going to have him, she had to succeed in days, rather than weeks; and that there was only one strategy that stood even the slightest chance of success – an insanely direct one.  
  
.........................................................................................................  
  
His mother's eyes sparkled at him from the wizard photograph that had reached him by an anonymous Hogsmeade Post Office owl. Harry Potter could not take his eyes off her, shining like a gold coin among coppers in a group of girls in Hogwarts robes. The note that accompanied the photo said:  
  
When Dumbledore sent Hagrid to collect photos for your album of your parents, they never thought of visiting us or asking us if we had any. I do, however, have at least half a dozen, plus almost a whole album of Sirius. I will give them to you if you meet me at [the address of a cottage outside Hogsmeade was supplied] after class next Friday afternoon, taking no companions of any kind with you. This is not a trap; you are not in danger either of your life or your soul. I do want something from you, but it is something that it will not hurt you to give. Signed: An old acquaintance.  
  
The letter had hit him, with diabolical accuracy, exactly in the most sensitive place of his spirit. His parents had died when he was nothing more than a baby; he had never got over the loss. The day when Dumbledore managed to present him with an album of animated wizard photos of his father and mother, collected from all their friends and acquaintances around the world, had been one of the red-letter days of Harry's life. To be told that there were more of them was an all but irresistible lure. No, he thought... scratch that "all but".  
  
He did not discuss the letter with anyone: not with Ron, not with Hermione, not with Dumbledore or any other friend or teacher. He knew what they would tell him; indeed, it was what his better judgement was telling him even now. But someone, somewhere, had at least one excellent wizard photo of his parents, and that meant that what the note said about half a dozen and a whole album of Sirius was at least not unlikely. So he was not even going to discuss the matter: he was just going in there like gangbusters, wand at the ready and expecting trouble, ready and willing to dish it out.  
  
He considered using his invisibility cape and decided against it: this was not a matter of cautiously scouting a possible negative situation, but of walking open-eyed into a certain trap. Besides, if things went wrong, he did not want whoever was at the back of this to get hold of it. And so it was that he turned up at the lonely cottage at the expected time, slammed the door open, and jumped in, wand first. He had not thought he would be surprised, but he gasped at what he saw.  
  
Narcissa Malfoy was an enemy, of course. Wife of Lucius, sister of Bellatrix, mother of Draco, suborner of Kreacher, neck-deep in every conspiracy since Voldemort had first appeared, she could not have represented a worse or more immediate danger. But somehow, he had never imagined having to fight her; he did not see her as a woman of action, like her sister Bellatrix or even her niece Tonks, the brave and clumsy young Auror who was becoming a dear friend of his. He had only ever seen her from a distance, standing decoratively and statuesquely in the background as her husband and her son hatched plans that regularly involved his death (preferably in some painful and public fashion). The way he imagined her was as a hostess, a social butterfly, perhaps a planner and back-room girl; he certainly had never heard of her exposing herself as she was now, as her sister Bellatrix would have loved to do.  
  
It was true that she did not strike a very bellicose note. She was standing calmly, in that same statuesque attitude he had sometimes seen from a distance, addressing him with a small smile, exactly as though they were making small talk at a party. "Of course, it never occurred to Hagrid to come ask us for photos of your parents. For one thing, Lucius... who can sometimes be a trifle unreasonable... would probably have enchanted him right out of the grounds again before he even had a chance to knock on the front door. For another, Hagrid – I know he is a friend of yours, but his ideas can be a trifle limited. He would never have imagined that we could have any pictures of people who... later in life... became enemies of our party."  
  
"But we share a common background... Your father, your mother, I, my husband... we went to the same school, we had the same acquaintances, the same interests. The photos are genuine, in case you were wondering. Lily Evans and my husband were never friends, but they were together in Hogwarts long enough that she would turn up in a few of his old Hogwarts photos. And when they got married, they sent him an official pic – I don't know whether it was as a sort of token of good manners, or to gloat. As for Sirius... of course I had plenty of photos of him; he's... was... my cousin."  
  
"Not that he liked it much," said Harry bitterly, remembering one memorable conversation before Sirius died. Narcissa said nothing; evidently there was nothing to be said. If she ever regretted anything, she would not tell him... but it was true, she thought to herself, that Sirius was another unbelievably handsome man. Like Lily, his beauty, if nothing else, had been a great loss.  
  
"Anyway, Harry, I am not here to fight. See?" She held out both hands, palms outwards. "No wand." And then her mouth curved into a smile. "No knickers either, come to think of that."  
  
She did not need to tell him that: now that he was getting over his astonishment and fear, he was noticing clearly enough that the handsome woman before him showed no evidence of underwear under her designer robes. His attention sharpened, as any man's would; but he was the more convinced that this was a trap. A pretty clumsy trap, come to think of that... except for those photos. And just then, he caught sight of them, carelessly laid on the table in the middle of the room. Even from where he stood, he could tell that they were exactly what the note had said: photos of his mother and his father, in their young days at Hogwarts, and one official one of their marriage. The note had not lied – on that matter, at least.  
  
"No," she said as though reading his mind, "I rarely do tell lies in writing. It is too easy to bring it up against you in court. What that note said was no lie, Harry. You are in no danger whatever. Neither Draco nor the Dark Lord nor Lucius know that we are here. You can walk out that door – as soon as you've heard me out – and never return... But somehow, I don't think you will."  
  
Harry was silent for a second or two; then he spoke, with a tone that suggested impatience or nervous tension. "OK. Great. Suppose I believe you. What do you want in exchange?" asked Harry, his wand still steadily pointing at her. "What is it that the note said it would not hurt me to give?"  
  
"The pleasure of your company over the week-end, Mr.Porter sir. I said," added Narcissa with a twinkle in her eyes, "that it would not hurt; I should have added that it would probably give you quite a considerable amount of pleasure."  
  
Harry was flabbergasted. If there was one thing he had absolutely not expected, it was to be propositioned by a Malfoy. He had come to consider the whole clan exclusively as a potential threat to his life; to have one – even a very attractive female one – come up with designs on his virtue instead, was not unlike having a man-eating tiger turning up under his windows to sing him a serenade.  
  
Narcissa went on: "In some circles, Harry, I am well-known for getting what I want, especially in bed. And since I saw you close up in Hogwarts, what I have wanted has been you. Whatever else you may be – and we won't go into that – you are the most beautiful man I have seen in thirty years."  
  
"Don't worry" – she added as she saw an alarmed expression on his face – "I'm not going to rape you or anything. That's what Bella would do, but I never could see the sense of it. It's hard work, and I find it profoundly anaphrodisiac." Harry did not know what anaphrodisiac meant, but he could have a good guess (and he later found out he was right). "No: if we do end up making love, you will have entered... me... freely and of your own will."  
  
"Oh, wow. And what does the Lord High Torturer have to say about this? Or are you taking advantage of his no doubt temporary absence?"  
  
"Lucius and I," said Narcissa, not mistaking the allusion, "have quite an open marriage. He is not bothered who I take home at night – if anything, there is... shall we say... a certain element of rivalry involved. If he ever found out, he would probably be jealous, not of me, but of you."  
  
"EEWWWW!"  
  
"What's that? You know, he's had boys quite as pretty as you..."  
  
"EWW! Just EW! Don't go there again!"  
  
Then, suddenly, Harry realized that his leg was being pulled – and pulled very hard. Narcissa laughed, and it must be admitted that it was a lovely sound, like silver chimes. "Honestly, Potter, how on Earth did you ever become the terror of the Dark Lord when you are so easy to lead on?"  
  
"Can't imagine, Mrs.Malfoy. Except perhaps that Voldemort only wants to kill me."  
  
"Ahhh. So sex with my husband is a fate worse than death, is it?"  
  
"To me, yeah. Not to mention that it would probably be followed by death, in my case."  
  
"And that's the wrong order?"  
  
"You might say that." Then Harry's face smoothed, and Narcissa's inner parts did a silent back-flip, as the gorgeous creature in the Hogwarts garden was again in charge – and what a dazzling smile he had. He crossed his arms and looked straight at her. "Well, well, well, a Malfoy with a sense of humour... who'd ever have guessed. Well, I suppose you are only a Malfoy by marriage." Narcissa smiled and said nothing.  
  
"All right, Mrs. Malfoy. Now that you've added to the list of my nightmares for years to come, can we just get back to the subject in hand? Why on God's green earth should I ever even begin to want what you want?"  
  
"First, because you are a growing boy. I don't know if you've ever done it before" – and Narcissa caught a fleeting expression on Harry's face that told her that he definitely had not – "but you would like it, and you could use some instruction from an older woman. Second, because I am one of the most beautiful witches my age in England. I can say that without bragging, because it's true. Third, because, according to many people who have reason to know, I am pretty good at it. Fourth, because if you pass it up, you will always wonder what you missed. And fifth, because it begins and ends here. There will be no repercussions. And how many women of any age do you know who could say that and mean it?"  
  
"These would all be reasons, if your name wasn't Malfoy."  
  
"Look, Potter. Do you know what is an oath by the river Styx?"  
  
He nodded. "It is the oath that the Gods swear."  
  
"Yes. It is an oath that the Dark Lord himself would not break, if he swore it; and so far as I know, he has only sworn it once. Well, Harry Potter son of James Potter: I, Narcissa Black Malfoy, swear by the river Styx that if you come to bed with me, you will come unharmed, stay unharmed, and return unharmed, and will be free from harm until you are within the bounds of Hogwarts and under Dumbledore's protection again. Does that reassure you?"  
  
"It does. It still does not convince me."  
  
"Dammit, Harry, am I so bad-looking? Do you know how many of your colleagues would give their right arms to be initiated by me?"  
  
There was a brief silence. "Lots, I suppose," answered Harry, without realizing that, by not reacting to the word "initiated," he had confirmed Narcissa's belief that he was a virgin – and made himself even more desirable in her eyes. "Less than you think, perhaps. You are very lovely, but a lot of people have a lot of reasons not to like you."  
  
All the time, Harry was wondering how much danger he was really in. Plain speaking to a potential mortal enemy was not without risk, either; and Harry's hand was firm on his wand, under his robes, as he went on. "And I am at the very top of the list. You are the wife... the mother... and the servant... of three people who would like to see me dead more than anything else in the world. It always comes back to that."  
  
"It does, Harry, so I'll tell you this: I'm not proposing a peace treaty based on your dick in my gash." The vulgarity made him jump, as she had intended it would. She wanted him to see it as she did – as a passing fancy, cheap and irrelevant, with no bearing on serious issues. "That is all it will be, beginning and end. Nothing else will come out of it, I promise. Once we get out of that door next Monday morning, we are enemies again. And if you worry about side-effects, well... Draco was a bit of a one- off. According to the Medi-Wizards, I've been sterile for years."  
  
This, to her, was a mere statement of fact, meant only to reassure him; she had not expected that it would draw his sympathy. It did, there was no doubt about it. His face was very easy to read, and she saw the look of pity as he said, "I'm sorry to hear that, I really am." To her surprise, he meant it. And to be perfectly honest, it had never even occurred to her that it was anything to feel pity for – the condition had so many advantages. And yet, here was her son's worst enemy, the boy who always sent Draco home hexed black and blue, commiserating with her – for what? Because she could not give Draco a brother to fight back against him?  
  
Narcissa smothered all these questions by moving forwards and placing her lips on Harry's. He did not resist: to the contrary, he met her half-way and his arms instinctively surrounded her – as slim and wiry, as perceptibly strong, as she had imagined them. Oh, this was going to be a time to savour. And for a novice, the boy's not half a bad kisser, either. They were almost the same height – Narcissa was tall – and Harry felt her warm, living female presence run through his body like fire. And so, without words, they sanctioned their agreement.  
  
............................................................................................................  
  
Dear Professor Dumbledore,  
Don't send out search parties for me. I am perfectly all right. I am spending the week-end with a – well, call it an old acquaintance – and will be back bright and early on Monday morning. There is absolutely no need to worry. Say so to Ron and Hermione from me, and to anyone else who worries. Yours very sincerely,  
  
HARRY JAMES POTTER  
  
"Are you sure he will buy it?"  
  
"He will. Trust me. He won't even try to trace the owl." In fact, Harry had managed to write into the letter, however short, a number of secret "I am safe and in no danger" signals known only to him, Dumbledore and a few other members of the Order of the Phoenix. Narcissa did not know that, but she could guess; she was tempted to memorize the letter and study it later at leisure, but, realistically, how could she be sure of the signs, or of their meaning? They could be anything. It would be a waste of energy; and – her thought startled her – it would not be fair to the boy.  
  
............................................................................................................  
  
The week-end came close to draining even Harry's vast stores of energy and recuperative powers. Narcissa was imaginative and almost tireless; besides, both of them found having sex easier than talking, which, considering their respective backgrounds, they could only do with large mental reservations on both sides. So they had sex all the time: Friday evening, all of Saturday, all Sunday, and early Monday morning, breaking off only to wash, eat, and sleep. Not that Harry enjoyed it all. Some of the things Narcissa did struck him as undignified, degrading, even perverted. Every now and then, he even found himself with an extraordinary feeling that he was abusing her – the inevitable result of an inexperienced and honourable boy from a very conservative background, meeting a woman who had lived for pleasure for twenty years and had no scruples of any kind. But it was all undeniably instructive, and wall-to-wall physical pleasure. Like many men and women before him, he was certainly no longer going to look at Lucius Malfoy's ice princess wife in quite the same light again. However, it must be said to his credit that it never once occurred to him that he was cuckolding Lucius, or to feel any pleasure in the fact. It may be that he was too young to make the connection; or it may be that he was above that particular kind of vulgarity.  
  
The last episode took place as dawn was rising Monday morning; it was slow, languorous, and, if anything, rather affectionate. Harry then got up and started dressing, as Narcissa lay back, relaxed and – for the time being – satisfied. She was already committing that long week-end to memory, one of the things she would not want to forget in the future... especially if the boy died in the coming war. He put on his robes and scooped up the photos of his parents and the Sirius album, which, out of some sort of superstitious regard, they had left in a locked cupboard all through their long performance.  
  
"You can go now, Harry. Don't worry, I won't come after you again. And when you finally decide to throw yourself away on Granger or some other Mudblood, don't go telling her that you learned the trade from me, all right?"  
  
"I'm not suicidal yet. Goodbye, Narcissa." And, before he left, he bent over and kissed her gently on the forehead.  
  
That was another surprise. Many of her lovers had gone with protestations of friendship, some with high-flown compliments on her beauty and skill; some had even offered her gifts – which she sometimes accepted, sometimes not, just to make the point that she was not anyone's for money. But nobody had ever just bent over and kissed her like that, chastely, like a child; the tenderness was a novelty to her. She wondered whether the Potter boy had grown fond of her, or whether this was just his version of good manners. If he had – she smiled to herself – more fool he; for if he ever came within her reach in battle, she would certainly not spare him. At least, her conscious mind told herself so. .........................................................................................................  
  
"Narcissa?" asked Lucius Malfoy, fresh arrived from jail and well hidden, under layers of protective spells, in his own home.  
  
"Yes, Lucius?"  
  
"What happened to those photos of the Potters and the Sirius album? I can't find them anywhere."  
  
"Oh, I got rid of them. Didn't want to be reminded of any of them."  
  
"Ah... I see. I don't think you should have, my dear. I thought I told you, we could have used them to bait a trap for Potter."  
  
"Why, yes, darling," she said, sounding thoroughly uninterested, "I suppose we could have." 


End file.
